


Friday Nights

by sunsets4muggings



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Open Marriage, Recreational Drug Use, Repressed Bisexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsets4muggings/pseuds/sunsets4muggings
Summary: Tom and Greg develop a bit of a tradition out of Friday night post-work hangouts.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50





	Friday Nights

**Author's Note:**

> this turned out a lot longer than originally intended so. welcome to part one out of four! hope you enjoy!

** Friday 1 **

Tom’s mind feels like a slowly yet persistently boiling soup ready to start seeping out of the pot. It’s been an eventful few weeks, and it seems they are nowhere near being out of the woods yet. He tries to steer clear of the whole acquisitions, proxy battle thing as much as he can, and besides that, there’s the huge, looming shadow of the Cruises scandal that’s beginning to look less like a shadow, and more like a huge, sharp-teethed beast aching to draw blood. He shudders. He can’t be thinking about that now. He needs to get himself into a good mood – it’s Friday, he’s made plans with Greg, they’re hitting the city and letting loose. It’s all just been a lot recently, and a night out with Greg will be like killing two birds with one stone; relieving some stress and making sure Greg was still solidly on his team. Not that Tom had a team, or that he really needed one, but he wanted to keep Greg close.

“What are you getting all dressed up for?” Shiv looks up from her iPad on the couch, eyebrow raised and an amused smile on her lips.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Tom asks, starting on the buttons at the bottom of his shirt. “Night out with Greg. Bit of a, ah, end of the week celebration.”

“Oh,” Shiv says. “Right, yeah, I guess I just… didn’t realize you were going _out_ out.”

“Yeah, we’re going to a club downtown,” Tom says absently.

“Sounds exciting.”

Tom stops in his tracks, processing her tone, and then meets her eyes uncertainly. “Is that, ah, is that an issue?” he tries to ask casually. “I mean, we’re just going to blow off some steam; grab a few drinks, make fools of ourselves on the dance floor... I wasn’t going to – you know.”

“Oh, no, no,” Shiv shakes her head quickly. “No, hey, it’s fine. I didn’t mean – you can do whatever. That’s the deal, right?”

“Sure,” Tom says slowly, assessing. “But, just so you know, I’m not going to – I didn’t plan for this to be a, uh, an arrangement thing. It’s more of a work pal, Greg and me, tough week at the office type of thing… thing.”

“Right, no, yeah, I get it,” Shiv says. Her voice is a bit higher than usual, trying to come off as more relaxed than she probably is, and Tom doesn’t miss it. “I just mean, hey,” she shrugs, “If you happen to meet someone – that’s fine. I’m cool.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tom nods. “I’ll, ah, keep it in mind. But, still, it’s really a Greg and me kind of party, so… but yeah! Good to know, hah-ah.”

Shiv gets up from the couch with a smile and crosses the room to him, finishing his top few buttons. She leans in and kisses him, gentle yet firm, and Tom has half the mind to just say fuck it, text Greg some excuse and spend the evening in bed with Shiv. She pulls back, but stays in his space and lets her hands fall around his neck.

“Have fun, Wambsgans,” she says and, with a final peck on his lips, steps away.

***

“It’s actually pretty cool!” Greg yells over the music. “Like, once you get used to it!”

“What is?” Tom asks.

“Having the whole balcony to ourselves!” Greg explains, motioning with his hand. “More space to dance!”

He swings to the beat a few times to demonstrate, gangly limbs somehow more fluid than they should be. Tom laughs. It’s amusing, in a way, seeing Greg let loose outside the office. He’s generally a good sport, but the alcohol drains some of the nervousness he always carries and amplifies this weird charm he has. It wasn’t Tom’s intention to make a genuine friend out of Greg when he delegated him to himself – that was to make sure no one accelerated a blood-related newcomer over him, when he’s been here longer and by all rights should also be the first to reap the benefits – but Greg, as it turned out, could be a pretty fun guy. He watches his absurdly long form sway to the music for a moment, and then shakes his head in amusement.

He knocks back what’s left in his glass and hands it to one of the waitresses. She smiles politely at him, beautiful eyes and a pristine outfit, and Tom knows it’s her job, but still he feels a tug of something he hasn’t thought about in a while. They’ve already had a few, him and Greg, and it’s enough to make him feel relaxed, stress-free, and energized. He walks over to the railing, peering down at the packed room.

It’s an exclusive club, and you either have to be loaded or very fucking beautiful to be let in. Tom drums his fingers on the railing. He could, maybe. And talk about a stress reliever. There’s a group of attractive girls near the stairs, and one of them looks up and waves at him. She’s gorgeous.

There’s really no reason not to. Shiv’s personally, vocally permitted it. Not that she had to, because by all accounts this should be perfectly fine under the arrangement, so –

“Hey, what’re you looking at?” Greg slides up next to him, and Tom’s gaze snaps away from the girls.

Right. Greg. No, Tom couldn’t, not tonight, because then he’d have to explain the whole thing to Greg, and he might tell someone else, and before Tom would know it, he’d be hearing snide remarks from all sides. Christ, what if Roman found out about it? He’d never hear the end of it, could never show up to another family event without filling with dread. Or worse, what if it got to _Cyd?_ He can’t risk that.

He chances another look at those girls, and finds himself making eye contact with the one that waved to him before. He smiles and nods at her, suddenly getting an idea.

“Greg!” he says, turning sideways. “How about we make this night a little sexy?”

“Uh – sorry?” Greg startles.

“Sex! We need to get you some pussy! You need to get laid, buddy.”

“I don’t – I’m not sure –”

“It’ll be fun! I could be your wingman! Do you get much?” he asks, and if Greg’s panicked look is anything to go by, he doesn’t. “Come on! You’re young, you’re rich, you’re in an exclusive New York club – and look at you! You sexy, pretty-faced, tall, dark-haired beast!" he rattles on. "Walked right out of a soft erotica novel! You should be getting some! I’m gonna call those girls up here.”

Greg stumbles and bumbles, but Tom ignores his protests and goes to talk to the guy guarding their little VIP section, pointing towards the girls. This is going to be great. It’s like a second-hand hookup, just without the morning-after shame, and it’ll settle any potential mistrust that might be lingering between him and Greg after the whole Cruises and blackmail thing. Oh, it’ll do wonders for their friendship; stabilize the loyalty, bring them closer, reignite the partners in crime thing they kind of have going on. This is just perfect.

“Tom, I really – Tom!” Greg catches up to him, just as the security guy is leaning over to one of the girls and pointing in their direction. Tom waves. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Like, I’m not really feeling it, right now, and –”

“Greg!” Tom says, grabbing Greg’s upper arms. “Relax!”

“Dude, I really don’t –”

“Just be yourself!” Tom assures him. “Give them that winning smile of yours, break out the dimple! You look ravishing in that suit – who wouldn’t want to fuck you? A little bit of flirting, and you’re good to go! You’ll do fine!”

“Right, but that’s not really my concern, Tom, I –”

“Ladies,” Tom greets the three truly very gorgeous women who’ve just climbed the stairs. “May I interest you in the most expensive thing on the menu?”

“Oh – sure,” one of them says and smiles.

“I’m Tom, and this here is my good friend Greg, and we’ve seen you dancing down there and Greg just could not keep his eyes off you!” he laughs and pats Greg on the shoulder. “Now, I’m married, but I’m always up for a little dancing, but _Greg_ here is an incredibly important executive in a _very_ big and exciting company, but he’s been so busy lately, he’s just _aching_ for an opportunity to dance and converse with some lovely ladies such as yourselves! Right, Greg?”

“I, um, hi,” Greg says, and he’s just not going to be winning anyone over with that uncomfortable and awkward attitude. Tom nudges him. Greg smiles. Well, he might.

** Friday 2 **

“I mean, I just don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Tom says, leafing through his shirt rack.

“Who, Greg?” he hears Shiv ask from the bathroom.

“Yes!” He picks out a standard white one – you can’t really go wrong with a white shirt. “And they were all over him, you know? I think the whole,” he motions with his hand at nobody, “awkward, inept idiot who can’t get through a single sentence without using the word “like” five times was, I don’t know, charming? He could’ve gotten it.”

Shiv hums noncommittally.

“But he just stood there talking about – god, I don’t even know what he talked about. Something stupid and not even a little sexy. It was a disaster,” he shakes his head. Black slacks, black jacket – who even cares, it’s not rocket science. “And at the end of the night, one of the girls even _asked_ him, point blank, if he lived nearby. And of course the stupid fucker starts talking about the fucking, what, high ceilings or some bullshit. Which, okay,” he rolls his eyes, “but get this; she cuts him off, because of course – I mean, shut up, right? – and says she’d love to see it herself. And he stumbles out something completely incoherent, I don’t think those were even _words_ , and jumps into the first cab he sees on the street. I mean, what the fuck?”

“Maybe he just wasn’t feeling it,” Shiv says, coming out of the bathroom.

“Please,” he scoffs. “You should’ve seen them, he’d be crazy not to –”

Anything else he wanted to say dies in his throat when his eyes land on her. She’s dressed up. A nice outfit, sexy in that distinct Shiv way, and her hair and makeup is done too. She looks stunning.

“Are you going out too?” he asks dumbly.

“Yeah,” she nods, rummaging through her jewelry. “A little girls’ night with some friends from college. Haven’t seen them in ages.”

“Oh,” Tom says. “Would those be the, ah, the wild ones? With all the parties?”

Shiv stops and looks up from the jewelry box. “Tom,” she says levelly. “We’re not in college anymore. We’re all adults. We’re just meeting for some drinks, do a little dancing somewhere. You have your little Friday boys’ nights, I have a Friday girls’ night. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, no, sure,” Tom nods vigorously. He scratches the side of his head uncertainly, and in the end can’t help himself. “Just out of curiosity though… when you say girls’ night, is that, ah, exclusive or?”

“Tom, come on,” Shiv says, diplomatic as always, but Tom can hear the impatience in her voice. “Relax. We have it all figured out. I’m going out with some of my friends, you’re going out with some of yours; we both need to, you know, have a couple of drinks, have a bit of fun, blow off some steam every once in a while.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Tom agrees. There’s a moment’s pause, the silence broken only by Shiv opening and closing various boxes, and then Tom gives her a look.

“Hey,” he says in his best seductive voice, crossing the room and putting his hands on her waist. “Here’s an idea. How about we just say fuck it, stay in, blow off all that steam together, huh? Have a few good ol’ tumbles in the hay?” he nods towards the bed suggestively. “What do you say?”

Shiv laughs. “Yeah, maybe another time,” she says. “When I’m not, you know, literally halfway out the door already?” she laughs again but leans over to kiss him. “I can’t cancel on the girls fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to meet them. Rain check?”

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” he sighs and lets go of her. She pats his chest lightly and goes back to the bathroom with a pair of earrings.

***

The bass is fucking into Tom’s brain with a brutal, relentless rhythm. The club is hot, even in their private little area, and Tom pops open the topmost button of his shirt. He’s distinctly aware he’s sweating, and wiping his hands on his pants is starting to get annoying.

Greg looks about as thrilled as he feels. He’s sitting on the couch nursing a cocktail, open face clearly displaying boredom and tiredness. It’s not a good look on him. This night is already a disaster, and it’s barely even started.

Maybe a hookup is just what Tom needs right now. And, fuck, he can trust Greg with this, probably. It’s not anything he could use as leverage, not really; there’s nothing for him to gain by telling people. And, okay, Greg did tell everyone about the incident at the bachelor party, but Tom didn’t tell him not to. And Greg was on coke. A truly awe-inspiring amount of coke. So if he just calmly explained the situation to him, told him it was something that should stay between them, maybe make mention of Shiv’s name too because, well, she definitely has a bit more power in the grand scheme of things and Greg knows it, it would all be alright. Could even be nice, having a little secret with Greg like that.

He scans over the room downstairs, but has a hard time focusing on a face. God, his head is killing him. Maybe he needs another drink.

“Greg?” he asks over the noise, and he picks his head up. “I’m getting another drink, you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Greg shakes his head. Just as Tom turns to wave one of the waitresses over, he calls, “Hey, Tom?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“You think maybe we could, uh, have an early night tonight? I think I might be coming down with something, maybe?”

“What?” Tom asks, not really surprised but disappointed nonetheless. “But I’ve just – I’ve just figured out a battle plan!”

“Oh, God,” Greg drags a hand over his face. “Look, Tom, if this is about you trying to hook me up with somebody again, I gotta level with you, I’m not really feeling up to it.”

“No, no, this is,” Tom begins, then bites his lip. He sits down next to Greg, leaning in close. He shifts a bit. “No, I was thinking – for me? Hooking somebody up with me?”

“What?” Greg frowns, leaning away to get a look at Tom’s face. “But what about – you’re married,” he states. “What about Shiv?”

“Yeah, that’s the, ah, the thing,” Tom starts. “We have this deal. An arrangement, really. And I’m saying it right now, I’d really appreciate if this stayed between us?”

Greg looks confused, but he nods anyway.

“So you can’t tell anybody. It’s a personal thing, I’m telling you because we’re, you know, we’re friends and everything,” he nods. “But yeah, basically, Shiv and I, we both agreed that we could, you know, should the occasion arise, feel free to, ah, fuck around a bit? And I just feel, right now, I could use some of that?”

Greg is frowning, but he nods like he understands. “Um, yeah, okay, that’s… cool, I guess. And yeah, like, mum’s the word,” he adds.

“Exactly,” Tom says.

“Well, okay. I mean if you’re gonna do that I might as well get out of your way?” Greg says.

“No, Greg, come on!” Tom argues. “It’s our boys’ night! Friday night boys’ night!”

“I know, I’m just saying, like, I’m not feeling up to any, uh, seduction tonight, and if you’re gonna be doing that, I don’t really see why I should be there?”

Tom makes a face and sits back into the couch, putting his feet on the table. If his mood wasn’t sour already, it’d surely be heading there by now. He wonders what Shiv is doing. She’s probably having a lot more fun than him. Something uncomfortable pools in his stomach. Greg is giving him a concerned look, eyebrows knitting together on his forehead, and Tom can see his lips moving but can’t quite make out the words over the music.

“What?” he asks, and Greg leans closer.

“Are you alright?” he hears him say. “Like, sorry if I’m being too, uh, bold here, but are you sure you really like, wanna do that? You don’t look like you’re having such a great time either.”

Tom opens his mouth to snap back something about doing a lot better if he could put his dick in someone’s pussy, but decides against it. The truth is, he’s not sure he’s really feeling up to it either. His mind keeps reeling back to Shiv, and it’s almost like he’s afraid that if he hooks up with someone, she’ll definitely be doing it too, at the same time, connected through some fucked up cosmic force. And, by the same logic (or whatever irrational cause-and-effect theory he’s cooking up), if he doesn’t do anything, neither will she.

“No,” he admits in the end, sighing. “No, I’m just. I don’t know.” He rubs his face and lets out a humorless laugh. “Christ, this is pathetic.”

“Hey,” Greg’s voice in his ear says. “We could just – like, let’s just get out of here. I mean, if neither of us is having any fun,” he trails off. “Are you hungry? I’m kind of hungry.”

“I could eat,” Tom shrugs.

***

Tom doesn’t know when he’s last eaten diner food. Probably college, and even that’s a stretch. They picked it up to go and brought it up to Greg’s apartment, and although the walk wasn’t long, the food’s already gotten a bit cold. And it was greasy and kind of disgusting-looking to begin with.

“Christ, this tastes foul,” Tom comments.

Greg shrugs, chewing on his burger. “Not a lot is open at this time of night.”

“Still,” Tom shakes his head and takes another bite. “Did they dip this into motor oil or what?”

“I’ve had worse,” Greg reasons, and then a small smile starts playing on his lips. “There was this like, fast food place back home. Like, up in Canada. It was the only place that was open past midnight, and my friends and I always ended up there when we stayed out late. This was like, high school. Anyway, this weird guy was always working night shifts, super creepy, and we’d get these like, huge, greasy sandwiches – heaven for the munchies, I tell ya. Although, I’m pretty sure the guy jerked off into the sauces,” he frowns.

Tom laughs, loud and full. “Oh, god, that does sound worse. Fucking abominable.”

“Yeah,” Greg laughs along. “But it was kind of nice. The tradition, I mean – not the, uh, jizz.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” Tom says. “Suburban Canada’s jizz sandwich leading connoisseur. Truly sick.”

Greg laughs in that way where it’s clear he’s not really sure if he finds whatever Tom said funny, but the silence that settles afterwards is comfortable nonetheless. It’s nice, hanging out with Greg like this, and despite the detestable food, the whole setting is much more soothing to his nerves than the club was. Shiv crosses his mind for a moment, but he pushes the thought of her and whatever she might be up to to the side. Or tries to.

“So, um,” Greg starts. “Are you feeling better?”

“Hm?” Tom hums.

“I mean, just. You seemed pretty down, before. At the club,” he provides, and Tom nods.

“I’m fine, Greg,” he says, tries to make it sound like it’s strange to even be asking. He doesn’t think he does that good of a job.

“Yeah,” Greg nods. After a beat, he speaks up again, “So like, can I ask? About this whole, uh, cheating deal?”

“It’s not cheating,” Tom corrects, mouth full. “It’s an arrangement. An open marriage, if you wanna label it. But not really – _open_ open. Just a free pass to, you know, fuck a face in the crowd from time to time.”

“Right,” Greg frowns. “And, uh, forgive me if I’m being like, too forward, but… that doesn’t seem a bit like, potentially dangerous to you? I just mean for like, feelings of jealousy? Or inadequacy, maybe? I’m not saying you _should_ feel jealous or, uh, inadequate, just that – it just kind of sounds like a recipe for it, maybe?”

Something tugs inside Tom, and he clenches his jaw. Puts on a brave face.

“Well, no,” he says. “Because at the end of the day, we choose each other, right? That’s what the ring is for.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, but he doesn’t look too sure. He gives Tom a look, and he can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, trying to decide if he should say whatever it is that he’s thinking. “I just thought,” he speaks again, and obviously that’s a yes. “You don’t seem all that happy about it.”

Tom puts down his half-eaten hamburger and takes a sip of Coke. Tries to stay composed. He shouldn’t be talking about this with Greg. It’s disconcerting how perceptive he can be, really, and when Tom gives him an assessing glance, he’s unnerved by the earnestness of his expression, the way it triggers some long-buried impulse in Tom to just clear the warning tape and spill his guts. He needs to keep his foot on the brake.

“It’s, ah,” he begins, unsure of where he’s going with it. “You know. It’s an arrangement that works,” he shrugs and avoids Greg’s eyes.

Greg doesn’t say anything, but Tom knows he’s looking at him. He clears his throat, willing himself to get his act together and for Greg to just fuck off and stop radiating these insufferable levels of fucking – fucking _concern_ , or whatever. It’s unnerving. It makes something inside him want to surge forward, and something else recoil back.

When he can’t stand looking down on his food anymore, he picks his gaze up and meets Greg’s eyes. Christ, he’s got concern written all over his face, the motherfucker. When did Tom become so transparent? Greg offers him a small smile, and the worst part is that it isn’t even a little artificial. Just an honest, friendly smile, and Tom feels something unfurl in his chest. It’s fucked up, how much of an impact the things Greg does and says around him have, and he resolutely decides not to think about it too much, not now.

“Hey, man,” Greg says gently, like he thinks Tom might break. “You wanna like, stay over tonight?”

Tom nods and looks down, fidgeting with his fingers just to have something to do with his hands.

“Thanks, Greg,” he says softly, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. That’s the most honest he’s been in months.

** Friday 3 **

“These Friday nights are really becoming a thing now, huh?” Shiv asks casually, not looking up from her laptop screen.

“I guess,” Tom shrugs. He takes a look at Shiv, and he can see some tension in her shoulders. “But we’re not going out tonight,” he adds. “Just hanging out at Greg’s.”

“Yeah?” Shiv looks up, surprised.

“Yeah, he’s actually a pretty fun guy. And I think he really needs this, you know? He seems kind of lonely, could probably use a friend – I think it means a lot to him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Shiv shrugs. “I mean – and no offence – but ATN isn’t really the friendliest of environments. But he has to have some friends here, right? He’s been in New York for almost a year now.”

“Well, sure, I mean, I guess,” Tom reasons, “but you know how he is. All weird and lanky and stumbling through conversations. And it’s good to keep close to him, you know? Maintain the loyalty, the trust. It’s a sound investment, businesswise.”

“Oh, because of the Cruises thing?” Shiv frowns. “Has he been faltering? You think he might sell you out?”

“What?” Tom asks. “No, no, of course not. But as a precautionary measure – it’s good to keep him on my side. For the future, too. He’s actually a lot smarter than he looks.”

“Well, that’s good,” Shiv agrees. “Keep him close, be his friend, make sure he doesn’t squeal. Smart tactic, Wambsgans,” she smiles winningly at him.

“Learned from the best,” he smiles back.

***

“I feel like I’m in college again,” Tom laughs as he watches Greg take one final drag from the joint and put it out.

“Yeah?” Greg asks, smiling that trademark dopey Greg grin. Tom likes seeing it on him, stupid as it makes him look. “I didn’t know people, uh, smoked weed in business school.”

“Sure they do,” Tom snorts. “Everyone smokes weed in college.”

“I guess, yeah,” Greg shrugs.

In truth, Tom’s only gotten high a total of maybe three times in his life, and while all of it _was_ in college – freshman year, to be exact – he doesn’t exactly know how prevalent it was outside his circles. He did get a kick out of it, then, but alcohol’s always been his choice of poison, and after those few times in freshman year, he’s never really sought weed out. But, when Greg disappeared to his room and came back with a baggie, he found himself agreeing enthusiastically.

“It tastes is a lot better than I remember it, though,” he admits honestly.

“Yeah, it’s good stuff,” Greg nods. “I mean, it better be, ‘cause I paid like, a ton more than I ever did back home. And Kendall introduced me to the guy, so I think it’s really like, top shelf.”

“Right, Kendall,” Tom nods, and can’t help the slightly bitter note in his otherwise light tone. “You two have gotten really buddy-buddy recently, huh?”

“We hang out sometimes,” Greg shrugs. “He’s a pretty good guy, actually, when he’s not – you know. When he’s at least kind of okay.”

“Yeah, well,” Tom says. “He’s dead in the water now. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, after the whole takeover thing… He’s finished.”

He hates the way he can’t keep the jealousy out of his voice, and hopes Greg doesn’t register it. Or maybe he hopes he does and it makes him feels guilty. It just doesn’t make sense, because if Greg wants to move up, sucking up to Kendall is really not the way to go. He’s nothing more than a tool at this point, a sad little puppet for Logan to wave in Stewy and Sandy’s faces, a strategic advancement in the proxy battle. But after that, in the big picture – he’s done.

“Yeah, I guess,” says Greg, and he sounds tired. “I don’t know, I’m not really – I just think he’s really going through a hard time right now, like, personally and everything. I don’t like, know what happened or anything, but. And he’s alright, you know? Like, to hang out with.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Tom says, and Greg must hear the bitterness because he gives him an odd look. “But enough about Kendall, this is _our_ night,” he says quickly, putting a big smile on. “Friday night boys’ night! Look at us, smoking it up like a couple of teenagers! You’re a horrible influence, Greg!”

“Yeah,” Greg laughs. “Yeah, so I’ve – so I’ve been told.”

The way he says it is so sweet, full of that stupid, distinctly Greg shyness that Tom has a hard time believing anyone’s ever actually told him that.

“So, mister certified pothead,” Tom begins. “You great big guzzler of greens. Inhaler of herbs most promiscuous.” Greg makes a face halfway between confused and amused, but Tom goes on. “What was it like growing up in the great big nation of Canada?”

“Oh,” Greg says. “Yeah, it was – okay, I guess.”

“Come on, I feel like I barely know you. What’s the mystery behind the mysterious cousin Greg?” he asks and laughs at his own joke.

“I mean there’s not much to tell, it’s just, you know,” Greg shrugs. “Kind of boring, I guess. Like, you grew up in Minnesota, right?”

“St. Paul,” Tom nods, and ignores the Pavlovian spike of embarrassment that comes with the admission. This is Greg he’s talking to – lanky fucking nobody from Whateverthefuck, Canada. Roy or not, the way Greg dressed when he first came to New York, Tom really has nothing to be ashamed of.

“Yeah, like, so probably not that different,” Greg says simply.

“Well, sure,” Tom allows. “But I wasn’t a freakishly tall, handsome drink of cheap kush and speech disfluencies. Come on, tell me something.”

“I don’t – like, what do you wanna know?” Greg looks a bit dazed, like he’s having a hard time following.

“I don’t know, anything,” Tom makes a face. “Something like the guy who kept jizzing in the sandwich sauces, I don’t know.”

“The guy who – Roger?” Greg frowns.

“Yeah, yeah, you know,” Tom waves his hand. “When we ate those god awful hamburgers last week and you told me that stomach-turning story.”

“Oh!” Greg says, and then laughs. “Yeah, man. We still got those like, every single time.”

“Christ, that’s disgusting,” Tom shakes his head. “But, you know, something like that.”

Greg nods and looks thoughtful for a second – well, as thoughtful as his face can get. Tom doesn’t know why he’s exactly interested, but the comfortable high he’s starting to hit is stripping down the barriers he usually has before speaking, and being around Greg just feels kind of weirdly natural, almost like a gravitational pull. He’s usually highly strung about it, approaching and reeling back in the span of seconds, trying to make himself think more beforehand and less afterwards. Right now, he’s barely thinking at all, and the pull forward is too easy to even properly register, much less try to resist.

In the end Greg shrugs apologetically.

“I don’t know, man, my mind is like, blank. I think it’s the weed. You tell me something.”

Tom finds himself taken aback for a second, although there really is no reason for it. He rakes his now already kind of sluggish brain for some stories. God, did anything interesting happen to him in St. Paul? He went to school, got decent grades, a group of friends –

“Well, there was –” he laughs when he remembers. “I can tell you about my first blowjob. That’s kind of a, ah, wild story.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. I was sixteen, I think, and there was this girl – a year older, totally hot, super popular. My friends said she wouldn’t look at me twice. But I made something up about needing help with – god, I don’t even know. English Lit, maybe?” he laughs. “And she was nice enough to help me, so I went over to her house and, you know, did a little flirting,” he waggles his eyebrows. “And she was into it, and after a while, she got on her knees and sucked me off. With her parents just downstairs.”

Greg is looking at him, and when it becomes apparent the story is over, surprise flashes over his face for just a second before he laughs. It sounds fake.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, okay, cool. Yeah, that’s – well, I mean, in high school everyone still lives with their parents so it’s like – they’re probably gonna be there, somewhere.”

“Well, sure,” Tom frowns, slightly wounded. “But they were very religious.”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I’m sorry,” Greg shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s – yeah. Wild.”

The irritation at Greg’s lack of enthusiasm doesn’t leave him, so he asks defensively: “Well, what was your first blowjob?”

“Which way around?”

“Which way – what?”

“Uh,” Greg suddenly looks panicked, and while he’s spluttering something debatably coherent, Tom processes the question.

“Which way around?” he repeats, kind of deliciously disbelieving. “You’ve done it the other way? You’ve _sucked_ somebody’s _dick_?”

“Well – I mean, uh – I – yeah?”

“Greg!” he laughs. “You’re _gay_?”

“Is that like, is that a problem?” Greg asks. He sounds like he’s trying to come off as challenging, but there’s anxiety in the way he straightens his back.

“No, of course not,” Tom scoffs, and then laughs again. “But you’re gay? Cousin Greg is _gay_?”

“Dude, I don’t like, get what you’re trying to say here?” Greg says. “I mean if it’s not like, a problem –”

“No, it isn’t a problem! Who do you think I am?” Tom asks, but the information is just unexpected enough to keep him from moving on. “It’s just funny. I mean – you’re a Roy! You work at ATN!”

“Anyone can be gay, Tom,” Greg looks confused.

“Sure they can, but just – here comes cousin Greg, little miss nepotism from Canada, six foot a bazillion, doesn’t know which _footwear_ is office-appropriate – and he’s gay!” he laughs, loudly. Greg doesn’t look any less lost.

“Uh, okay?” he sounds just a little too confused to be affronted. “I mean, I don’t think that’s really like, a fair description, but like –”

“It’s fine!” Tom assures him with a friendly hand on his shoulder, although he does feel a little shaken. “I mean, good for you, right? I’m fine with it!”

“I, uh, thanks?” Greg says. “I, like, appreciate that.”

“Of course,” Tom waves a hand. He knows he’s acting a bit weird, and in truth he’s still processing the whole thing, the implications of it. “You might not want to tell the others, though. Well, I doubt anyone would really _care_ , but, you know. If it got spread around the office,” he trails off.

“Yeah, no,” Greg laughs slightly. “Did not plan on that. I was going to like, keep it to myself anyway because like, just in case? And I’d, uh, appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody either?”

“Yeah, no, sure. You can trust me,” Tom says. After a moment, he adds: “On this. I mean, nothing for me to gain by telling people.”

“Right, yeah,” Greg nods. “But still, uh, thanks.”

“Of course,” Tom pats his shoulder. “We’re friends!”

“Yeah,” Greg smiles. “Yeah, man.”

Tom smiles back, a little crazed, and wills himself to put off whatever chewing his brain is doing on this unexpected little coming out. He takes a look at Greg’s face, smiling back at him in a mix honesty and a bit of anxiety, and something stirs in him, something crazy and wanting and hard to pinpoint. He feels a bit hot.

“So,” he starts up again to take his mind off it. “That blowjob! The first time blowjob! Which, ah, way did it go?”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Greg seems to remember what they were talking about. “The first time it was, uh – well, it’s not really like, an interesting story or anything, but I liked this guy, and we kind of had a thing? I mean, not really but like, we’d joke about it? And make out sometimes? Anyway, yeah – one time we were hanging out, and one thing lead to another and it was, uh, me who blew him.”

“Oh, okay,” Tom nods, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. The image of Greg on his knees, mouth full of dick enters his mind violently, and he tries to push it away. His skin feels a bit too tight. “Well, sounds like fun, hah-ah!”

“Yeah, it was –,” Greg shrugs. “It was pretty cool, I guess. I don’t know. It’s like, a standard issue blowjob. But I mean, it was pretty exciting.”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” Tom nods vigorously. “Sure.”

“Are you okay, man? We don’t have to like, talk about this,” Greg says, eyebrows drawn up. “It’s cool.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Tom says, perhaps a bit too forcefully, and loosens his tie a bit. “I’ve heard of gay people before, Greg,” he adds condescendingly, just for good measure.

“Alright, yeah,” Greg says. “Um. I’m sure you did. Cool.”

An uncomfortable silence settles on them, dragging to what feels like infinity. Tom desperately tries to think of something to say, anything to change the subject and make this hangout feel normal again, but his mind is too hazy and scattered, and the only clear thing that appears in it is a series of images of Greg in compromising acts he’d rather not have there.

Jesus Christ, get a grip, he thinks. So Greg is gay. So Greg’s sucked dick before. Hell, he even _enjoys_ it, by the sound of things. That’s fine. Some people do. Tom’s never had a problem with it. Well, he’s never really been friends with a gay person, he doesn’t think, but conceptually he’s fine with it. He wonders how it feels, blowing another man, and when he accidentally meets Greg’s eye, he considers – Jesus. He shuts his mind down aggressively and looks away.

“So, uh, do you wanna smoke some more? Watch a movie or something?” Greg finally breaks the silence.

For a moment, relief washes over Tom only for the stress to come back in tenfolds. Is Greg hitting on him? Trying to get him high and use his clouded judgment to drag him into bed? He doesn’t _sound_ suggestive, but Tom’s brain feels like it’s been scrambled and then hooked up to high voltage, so what does he know anymore, anyway? And if he did, would he let him?

He chances a good look at Greg’s face, working hard to make his expression seem open and friendly, like he’s good naturedly considering the offer when all his brain is doing is trying to stop imagining what it would be like if Greg sucked _his_ dick.

Greg looks like he always does, like anyone would look if they were stuck in a bit of an uncomfortable situation with a friend and tried to diffuse it by limiting direct communication with some more weed and a movie to grab their focus. He doesn’t look like he has an evil gay ploy Tom is not up to date enough to understand. His mind makes itself up in a second, and he mentally scoffs at himself for even considering this kind of almost conspiracy theory level thinking. God, this is Greg he’s talking about. He has to remember that. Cousin Greg, who brings him lattes and talks about _principles_ like he’s some down and out humanities student, and who just so happens to also be gay. He’s acting ridiculous. He swallows down a surprising spike of disappointment.

“Yeah, sure,” Tom smiles, his face relaxing slightly as more honesty drips into his expression. “What are we watching?”

** Friday 4 **

“Hey, what are you – I thought Fridays were for Greg?” Shiv looks puzzled when she walks into the living room and finds Tom absently flicking through the channels on the TV. “It’s almost eight.”

Tom turns his head to her and frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean? Fridays are for Greg?”

“What do you mean what does it mean?” Shiv laughs, confused, and sits down next to him, eyes flicking to some Hallmark movie on the screen. “It’s Friday. You go out with Greg on Fridays. For the last, what, three weeks? I thought it was a thing.”

“It’s not a _thing_ ,” Tom scoffs, feeling defensive. “We hang out sometimes, sometimes we don’t. We’re not glued at the hip.”

“Okay, whatever,” Shiv looks a bit taken aback, and Tom immediately regrets his tone. “I just thought, you know, Friday night was boys’ night.”

“Yeah, no, well, sure,” Tom backtracks. “I’m just, ah, not sure if I feel up to it, today.”

“Is something the matter?” Shiv asks. “You’re acting kind of cagey, Wambsgans.”

“No, I’m fine, I just –” he begins, then stops himself. “Well, I don’t know.”

Shiv is looking at him expectantly, and he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. He knows he’s acting weird about this. In truth, the Greg thing hasn’t left his mind for longer than five minutes since the half accidental confession last week. The revelation that Greg is attracted to men, that he fucks them, that it’s something he just does and _is_ … It’s a lot to wrap a mind around, on a practical level. And it’s not that Tom lives in some bubble stuck in 1952, it’s just that… Well, it’s always been an abstraction. There are women who love women and men who love men and there’s war in the Middle East and NASA is launching another rocket into space and none of that has anything to do with Tom, who is moving to New York and dating one of the richest, most beautiful women in the world and climbing the corporate ladder in one of the biggest media conglomerates in the world.

But Greg isn’t an abstraction. Greg is a person. He’s a real person, who comes into his office and brings him lattes and hangs out with him on the weekends and laughs at his jokes even when it’s clear he doesn’t understand them. And then he also sleeps with men. It’s like these two realities – abstract concepts he’s vaguely aware of and real things happening to him directly – have suddenly, for the first time, come together in Tom’s mind and made him think in terms he’s never considered before.

“Tom? You with me?” Shiv asks. “You’ve been zoned out all week, seriously, this isn’t like you.”

“Yeah, just,” Tom waves a hand and puts on a smile. “Things on my mind, hah. Nothing serious.”

“Right,” Shiv nods, clearly not quite buying it. She hesitates for a second, and then says: “Well, if you’re staying home tonight, maybe we could talk strategy? About the Pierce deal?”

Tom hums and tries his best to make it sound even remotely interested, but in truth, he’s barely spared it a thought whole week. Which is saying something, considering it’s all everyone’s been talking about.

“I mean, now that we’re definitively going ahead with the buy, we should talk,” Shiv says. “And ATN especially, some things should probably –”

“Yeah, ah, you know what?” Tom interrupts, keeping his voice light, and puts a gentle hand on her knee. “I don’t – Maybe we should do this tomorrow? It’s been a, ah, long week. I think I’m going to go over to Greg’s after all. Do some good ol’ end of the week winding down, hah-ah.”

“Oh,” Shiv sounds disappointed. “Yeah, okay. Sure. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Tom smiles. “I just don’t think I’m in the right headspace, right now?”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Shiv nods. She smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes either.

***

Tom feels increasingly erratic on the drive to Greg’s apartment. He goes back and forth between resolute irrationality of a half-baked need inside him, and terrified bursts of sobriety that almost make him tell the driver to turn back around and take him home. Or to the nearest bar that serves something expensive enough not to make him gag. He doesn’t, and before he knows it he’s standing in front of Greg’s building, staring at the sleek entrance as if it’s going to devour him.

He texted Greg a few hours ago with some bullshit excuse as to why he couldn’t make it tonight, and for a moment he hopes the doorman will tell him Mr. Hirsch isn’t home. He doesn’t, just smiles politely and picks up the receiver, and then Tom is in the elevator, going up, stomach dropping down, and he’s not sure if it’s entirely due to simple physics.

“Hey, man,” Greg sounds surprised when the door opens and Tom walks in. “I thought you said you weren’t coming?”

“A girl can change her mind, Greg,” he informs him, willing himself to act like a human being.

Greg looks good. A nice, clean shirt – different from the one he wore in the office earlier – with the top button undone, hair a bit disheveled and falling over his forehead. He must’ve showered after he got home from work. He looks fresh, despite how hectic the last week at Waystar’s been, and Tom isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Christ, what is he doing here?

“Yeah, uh, okay.” Greg seems jittery. Tom wonders if he can sense how fucking close to insanity he is right now. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got, uh, some beer, and I think a bit of wine, and –”

“Beer’s fine,” Tom nods, and Greg disappears into the kitchen.

Tom’s eyes glance around the apartment, consciously taking it all in for the first time without really fixating on anything. It’s nice. Clean, modern, sort of minimalist. It doesn’t feel very Greg, but it speaks miles about how much he’s grown accustomed to this world. It looks like a corporate executive’s apartment should look like. Who the fuck even is Greg, Tom thinks for a second, and considers just bolting out the door and going the fuck home before Greg comes back from the kitchen. He feels antsy, being here again, in Greg’s space, where he breathes and sleeps and jerks off, thinking about men, where maybe he’s brought men and –

“I think you’ll like this, it’s a craft beer I got from –”

“Are you seeing anyone right now?” Tom interrupts.

Greg stops in his tracks, obviously not expecting that, two brown bottles with colorful designs hanging from his hands by the necks. Tom doesn’t feel like he’s got enough rationale in him, right now, to try and explain the question (how would he, anyway?) or really even control himself enough not to just say and do whatever his erratic, illogical thought process tells him to in the moment.

“No, I,” Greg says when he seems to process. “I don’t really have the time to, uh, date or whatever.”

“Well, you must hook up then. Really, ah, dazzling place to bring someone to,” Tom laughs nervously. “Hey, wanna bang in my sweet penthouse? Sends the, ah, boxers flying, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah, I’m not like, massively into the whole hookup scene,” Greg says. He looks uncomfortable. “Why – uh, why do you ask?”

Tom makes a face that’s supposed to convey something along the lines of casually wondering and “no reason, just curious” and “don’t think too much about it”, complete with a wave of his hand, because fuck if he knows, really. He’s just wondering. All week, he’s been wondering. He feels hot.

“Will you give me that fucking beer already or are you just going to stand there until it starts tasting like piss?” he asks after a moment, and Greg seems to snap out of whatever daze he’s in as he hands Tom one of the bottles.

They make themselves comfortable on the couch, although Tom feels entirely too wound up to relax. He takes big gulps of beer, hopes it’ll ease his nerves, slow his mind down to something that makes sense and doesn’t end up in regret. Greg looks like he’s definitely picking up on some level of danger: deadly cliff ahead, and he takes measured sips between glancing sideways at Tom.

“What is it, Greg?” Tom asks impatiently when he can’t stand it anymore.

“Nothing, just, uh,” Greg says, faux-casually. He seems on edge. That makes two of them. “Just drinkin’ my beer. Good, right?”

“Then maybe you can stop gawking at me.”

“I’m not, uh, sure that’s the right word, but,” Greg frowns.

“Well, whatever you think you’re doing,” Tom says, “you can stop. I feel like a fucking criminal on a lineup.”

“I’m just,” Greg begins like he’s trying to defuse a bomb. Tom wants to laugh, because maybe it’s true. He feels like whatever grip he usually has over the situation is starting to slip. “Are you okay? You’ve been kind of… weird all week.”

“Well, I’m sorry if being the head of an incredibly large news operation is making me a little stressed, Greg.” He hopes the condescension in his voice is enough to cover for the fact he’s barely done any work all week. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

“No, yeah, sure,” Greg nods. “Definitely.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, hesitates, and in the end just takes another sip of his beer. Tom gets a sudden urge to hit the bottom of his bottle so it spills all over his nice clean shirt, the open look on his face that indicates he definitely thinks there’s more to this, but doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t know anything, Tom tells himself, and takes another long gulp of his own beer because as wired as he feels right now, he’s not actually eleven years old.

“Are you, uh,” Greg beings after a pause too long for it to feel casual. “Are you sure it’s got nothing to do with the whole, uh gay thing? ‘Cause you’ve been – like, you seemed kind of freaked out by it, maybe?”

“Well, someone’s been getting a little conceited,” Tom strains to make himself laugh. He should remember Greg isn’t actually as dumb as he looks. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“No, sure,” Greg says quickly. “It’s just that, you know, that kind of does seem like it could be – like, speaking in timelines, you’ve seemed a bit, like, off. Since then. So I’m just asking.”

“Can I ask you something?” Tom decides to ignore Greg’s pretty inarguable reasoning because, well, maybe something productive could come of this.

“Yeah, sure,” Greg looks surprised, and Tom tries his best to ignore how pretty the expression makes him. He flexes his free hand on his knee and releases.

“When did you, ah, figure it out? The gay thing?”

“Oh,” Greg looks thrown, but not overly so. Tom tries not to linger on what it could mean. He’s here to get some answers, one way or another. “Fifteen I think? Early high school I guess, like, the age where everyone’s talking about girls or porn or whatever, and I just couldn’t really relate?”

Tom hums thoughtfully, although that hardly helps him. “Yeah, I guess I’m wondering more along the lines of, you know, what the process was? The thought process?”

Greg takes a deep breath, leaning back into the couch and exhaling it slowly, eyebrows high on his forehead as he seems to look back. “I mean, to be totally honest I don’t exactly remember? There were some, I guess you could call them complications? My dad – like, my parents split up when I was twelve, and it was because my dad –”

“Yeah, right, but in terms of,” Tom gestures with his hand, trying to find the right word, “in terms of desire. Thoughts, wonderings, imagination – that kind of thing?”

Greg appears to be thinking, a funny, almost pained expression on his face as his eyes look up at the ceiling, and Tom figures he should be more specific.

“What are the tiers, is what I’m asking,” he says. “The line between just regular human curiosity – just manly, hetero affection – and the, ah, the full on desire, should we say?”

“I – what?” Greg frowns. He’s looking at Tom like he’s trying to figure out if he’s razzing him again, but when Tom keeps staring at him intensely, waiting for an answer, he lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, you kind of, uh, lost me? I don’t – tiers?”

“Yes, Greg,” Tom’s patience is wearing thin, and the same force that drove him to Greg’s apartment in the first place isn’t letting him drop this now, despite the weird atmosphere of the room and the subtle curiosity in the way Greg is looking at him. “Tiers. You want to see a dick, you want to touch a dick, you want to suck a dick – tiers!”

“Yeah, I don’t really – I don’t think that’s how it works,” Greg says definitively, shaking his head. “It’s more like – for me, personally, I should say – like a… conglomeration of a lot of different, specific, uh, personal feelings and experiences and circumstances and like, trial and error, and it’s not – it’s not a linear thing? And then at one point you’re like, yeah, okay, I guess I’m gay?”

Tom tries not to look too disappointed. This is fucking useless. He bites the inside of his cheek, resists the urge to lash out on Greg for the careful, assessing look he’s giving him.

“Tom, I –” he starts hesitantly. “I don’t want to pry, but –”

“Do you have anything to eat?” Tom cuts him off, heart hammering and palms sweating. He keeps his voice light. “Some snacks, maybe? I’m craving a little something to chew on.”

“Uh,” Greg looks thrown again, but he quickly catches up, even if he seems at a bit of a loss. “Yeah, I’ve got some chips, I’m pretty sure?”

Tom grimaces in disgust. He hasn’t had chips in years. Not the greasy, fake flavored shit they sell at the supermarket, anyway. He still nods, just to get Greg out of his sight for ten seconds. When he leaves to get it, he rubs his face, not feeling any less neurotic. Fuck. What is he doing here? There’s still this drive in him, this crazy thrill of being around Greg that always wants more, and talk is just never enough, never quite scratches this itch –

“They’re a few days old,” Greg says apologetically, placing an opened bag of some neon brand name chips on the table.

Tom barely listens to him, just leans over and grabs a handful, and regrets it immediately when the taste hits him. Stale supermarket chips. God. What is he coming to?

“So like, do you wanna do anything?” Greg suggests good-naturedly. “We could – we could watch a movie again? You said you liked Miss Congeniality once, I think, we could watch that?”

Tom laughs, loud and surprising, because this is just too much. A ploy to calm him down with a Sandra Bullock rom-com? God. God, he must seem like he’s really on the edge of blowing.

“Who are you, a middle aged single mom after a day of driving her kids to ballet classes?” Tom huffs another laugh. “No, I don’t want to watch Miss fucking Congeniality with you, Greg.”

“Just a suggestion,” Greg shrugs, putting his hands up. “Like, whatever. We could do whatever.”

Tom gives him a look, long and hard, and in the span of seconds manages to have an entire albeit completely incoherent conversation with himself, the conclusion of which dies when Greg shifts uncomfortably under his gaze and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Something inside Tom snaps, and he thinks, fuck it.

“You could kiss me,” he says, handing over any and all control to the metaphorical auto-complete function of his brain. Just fuck it.

Greg breathes out a laugh, smiling in that “okay, you got me” way of his, but when Tom doesn’t say anything else, just continues looking at him defiantly, it slowly fades from his lips.

“Dude, that’s – come on,” he says like he’s waiting for a long overdue punchline. He laughs again, a lot fainter and less sure.

Tom gets up, the bottle he puts down on the coffee table clinking a lot louder than he expected, and takes a step towards Greg.

He looks like a deer in the headlights, wide eyes looking up at Tom, searching, like he’s trying to figure out how far Tom’s willing to take this elaborate joke. There really is something about his face, about these expressions he makes. Something unintentionally gorgeous, Tom thinks, and he’s beyond the point of trying to convince himself thinking about the way Greg looks is entirely inconsequential and without motive. The punchline of this joke, of course, is the fact that Tom’s counterforce has just given in. With what he hopes is a subtle intake of breathe, he motions for Greg to stand up, and he does.

His hand shakes a little when it takes ahold of Greg’s tie, eyes focused on the small, almost invisible details on it. Has Tom bought him this tie? Maybe. He doesn’t remember. He lifts his gaze up to Greg’s eyes staring back at him, his slightly parted lips. They’re standing close enough for Tom to notice Greg’s shallow breaths, barely there at all. He’s thought about this, maybe, Tom realizes, and it pushes him over the edge, one final “fuck it” in his mind, and he closes the remaining distance between them.

Greg doesn’t move for a second, and neither does Tom, this turn of events simultaneously unexpected and entirely expected, like he’s been waiting for it for months. Like Greg has been too. He wants to laugh – at what, he’s not sure – but then Greg’s lips move, and nothing about this is funny. He reciprocates, and fuck, it’s only a kiss, not unlike any other kiss Tom’s ever had, but at the same time it’s something completely different, like the sum total of all the times he’s thought about this (briefly, immediately discarded as ridiculous) coming back in tenfolds and so much better and more real than he ever dared to consider.

His grip on Greg’s tie tightens for only a moment before he lets go of it, his hand flattening against Greg’s chest and sliding to his shoulder, holding him in place. Greg’s hands move a bit too quickly to rest on Tom’s back, and Tom’s not sure if it’s to ground himself or Tom, but he feels fucking weightless, in this moment, like nothing outside of this exists.

Greg pulls back but doesn’t step away, breathing a little heavier. His eyes are just as wide, if not more so, and Tom can practically hear him thinking through that thick skull of his.

“Shut up,” he says when Greg opens his mouth, beating him to it. “Stop thinking.”

“Tom, I don’t think this –” he says anyway, reluctantly, but Tom cuts him off.

“Exactly. Don’t think,” he says. “You shouldn’t be thinking. Just shut up. This isn’t even happening,” he shakes his head. Greg licks his lips. “We should go to your bedroom.”

Greg stands still, dumbfounded for a moment, and then he nods, like he’s finally caught up and turned his brain off, letting whatever wants to happen happen. Tom isn’t thinking of what this means, what it’ll mean tomorrow, what it’ll mean on Monday. He just follows Greg through the door and into his bedroom, decorated in that same minimalist way, but cluttered with clothes and dirty mugs and a really quite abominable ashtray on the bedside table. In any other circumstances, he would’ve made a joke, picked on Greg for not even making his bed, but he’s too busy pressing against him, kissing him again and again, letting his hands roam over Greg’s arms, his back, his chest. The kisses are turning fervent, and Greg’s hands are on his shirt, unbuttoning, and Tom couldn’t be more in the moment while also entirely not present, like he’s not the same Tome tugging Greg’s tie off with his taste lingering on his tongue.

They stumble onto the bed, scrambling to get their clothes off. Once Tom is down to his underwear, it suddenly dawns on him that he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s never been with a man, not in any capacity, and while parts of him are urging him to just get on with it, he doesn’t actually know what “it” is. Greg is lying back on the bed, shirt and slacks lost on the floor somewhere, looking up at him with hot, almost hungry eyes. Fuck.

He leans over him, kissing him again, and Greg’s hands automatically pull him in, moving across his back. Every touch feels burning hot, every kiss sends electricity up and down his spine, all of it coming together to make his head spin on his shoulders and leave him feeling like he’s taken five shots in quick succession and not just half a bottle of some mediocre craft beer. He grinds down, pleasure shooting through him, and hears Greg gasp. It’s a new sensation, feeling another man’s hard on on his thigh, and it’s hot, so incredibly hot, and he keeps doing it, chasing that pleasure, chasing the sounds Greg is making in his ear, a melody of pants, gasps, and groans.

Greg’s hands tug at the waistband of his boxers, and Tom pulls back for a second, breathing heavily.

“I don’t –” he starts, unable to suppress the bit of embarrassment and anxiety entering his head. “I’ve never done this before. Men, I mean.”

“That’s – that’s okay,” Greg says, sounding a bit breathless. “We don’t have to – no pressure, man.”

“Can I suck your dick?” Tom hears himself ask. There’s no shame left in him, not now, and he doesn’t have the mental capacity to pretend he’s never thought about it before. About any of this.

“Yeah,” Greg nods vigorously. “Yeah, definitely. Absolutely.”

Tom kisses him again, feeling like he’s on fire, and braves himself to move downwards, kissing along Greg’s neck and earning a new set of gasps. He moves down his chest, hands absently tugging at Greg’s boxers until he lifts his hips and they work together to get them off and away, somewhere on the floor with the rest of their clothes.

Without giving himself the time to second-guess, he slips the head of Greg’s dick into his mouth, almost like an experiment, and when Greg gasps, he takes it in further. He tries to replicate what is usually done to him, moving his head up and down and trying not to make it overly sloppy or overly firm. It’s harder than it looks, he finds, but he seems to find a balance after a while, seems to find a good rhythm, judging by the increase in the heaviness of Greg’s breaths. He brings his hand to the base, finds a way to make them work together, and Greg fully moans, a hand suddenly tanging itself in Tom’s hair. It’s not pulling, but it feels encouraging, and Tom goes on, distantly surprised at just how much this is turning him on.

“Tom,” Greg breathes, his hand in Tom’s hair sliding down to pat him on the shoulder. “Tom, I’m – I’m close.”

Tom pulls off, and with a final few strokes of his hand, Greg comes, a sharp breath escaping from his lips as he does. Tom licks the bit of it off his hand without really thinking too hard about it, and Greg tugs at his arm, urging him to come up. He kisses him, long and passionate, like a thank you or a fuck you or a finally, and Tom realizes just how painfully hard he still is, how much he’s aching for release.

“I’m gonna – I’ll just –” Greg sounds out of breath, and he kisses him again. “I’m gonna suck you off too, okay?”

“Yeah,” Tom breathes. “Fuck.”

They switch places, Greg going down with determination, and this, Tom knows. Or he thinks he knows, because when Greg takes his boxers off and sinks his mouth onto Tom’s cock, his brain feels like it short-circuits, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the wait, or the fact he’s done the same thing to Greg just moments ago, or just Greg, but it feels almost impossibly good. Not ten seconds pass and he’s already close, warning Greg breathily and wishing he could make it last longer, because fuck. _Fuck._

After he’s finished, Greg comes back up, wiping his mouth and looking at Tom with a mix of satisfaction and uncertainty, an unspoken question in his eyes, and no, it’s still too early to start thinking again.

“Come here,” Tom says, and Greg does.

They kiss, slow and lazy and like they’ve done this a million times before, hands slowly travelling up and down their bodies. It feels nice, somehow right even after this release of tension and excruciating need that’s been building up, and Tom is not ready to go yet. He’s not ready to face reality or consequence, so he pushes every thought he has down and slings an arm over Greg, closing his eyes. Whatever this will bring, it’ll bring it tomorrow morning at the earliest.


End file.
